Alone in Me
by Star21
Summary: A girl with Anorexia and a guy who's in love. What more could be asked for? R&R!!
1. March 21

She looked at the scale, and, as always, felt the sinking of her heart. For weeks and weeks, who would even want to count, she had been doing this. This up-and-down routine, filled with happy days, and sad ones. Filled with tears and smiles and.and even pain. Although she wouldn't admit it to anyone. Or so she said. She would admit it, if anyone asked. But no one had, and no one was going to. This past week had been a bad one. The beginning of summer vacation.what else could she do? Everyone expected her to want the happy summer foods-watermelon, strawberries dipped in chocolate, and lemonade, that water that was only sweeted to disgusting heights by fake sugar, sugar that, alone, ¼ of a teaspoon was 40 calories. Already, only one week after school let out, she was looking in the mirror and starting to cry again. Looking in the mirror and trying to find in her eyes the old life, the life that used to sparkle back at her and make her want to laugh. Sometimes, she laughed, it was true. But she would only be laughing through her tears, laughing at her own stupidity which she couldn't even control. She couldn't even control herself anymore. On good days, she could. On good days when she tested herself most, back when school was in session, back when those eighth grade female teachers asked how she lost so much weight, asked how she did it. They asked with that certain amount of incredulity in her voice, that thing that made her feel stronger, above them. It was a bad feeling, but the human nature in her wanted her to keep it, to keep it and hoard it all for herself. On good days, those days when she woke up at five in the morning, and was able to hold her head up proudly, was able to stand up straight even when the pangs of hunger overtook her during lunch time. Those good days when she was able to smile, politely shake her head, and say "I had a big breakfast" when the teachers handed out candy in class. On good days, she knew that she was going to be okay. She would skip precious minutes of class to go to the bathroom, to look in the mirror, and to cry, but to know that she was able to have the hunger, that she was able to refuse food even when her brain was kicking her, ordering her to jam those nasty calories into her mouth. On good days, she would come home, change clothes, smile politely, and begin doing her running. Running around her block six times gave her three miles. When she felt light-headed, dizzy, her tears would stop, and her feet almost would, too, but she would make them run, make them keep running, thinking to herself that if she fell and fainted, right there on the street, how her parents would worry if she wasn't home before dark. She would keep on running, jogging, at times even walking, just to burn those calories off. Calories are the enemy. On bad days, though, on bad days she would come home from school, really dreading the running, and blame her homework. She would blame the homework that she had, the tests that she truly needed to study for. Her grades were going down. She was still manageing straight A's, but she was also crying during every single test. Those damn tears just never stopped flowing, no matter what she did. On bad days, she wasn't able to refuse snacks, on bad days she couldn't say no to the sugar, on bad days she would skip breakfast, if she was lucky, and have half of her lunch. On bad days she had no control. She just.she had no control. Looking at the number on the scale, wishing desperately that it would stop rising, raising her gaze to the mirror to stare at the fat in her tummy, the beginnings of rolls on her legs, she leaned against the wall and hit her head quietly, moving her mouth to whisper "Please, oh please, oh please God, please". Although it wasn't fair of her. She always claimed never to believe in God. And here she was praying to him. Praying to him to give her the control that she didn't even deserve in the first place. Four feet, nine inches tall, weighing ninety-eight pounds. If the number ever got to one-hundred, she would start screaming and she would never, ever stop. Her mother called her, she wiped her tears off with her arm, praying again to the God that she didn't believe in, praying for her eyes to stopl ooking so red. Her mother could always tell when she had been crying. Even when she tried desperately hard for it to not show. At least she thought that the number on the scale had been ninety- eight. The last doctor's check-up had been ninety-three, but you can never be too sure of those things. And plus, she had eaten like a pig. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Not to mention she had always given in to her chocolate cravings. She promised herself, after her parents and friends found out, that she would try to eat more. No one believed that she was anorexic, she kept on writing down those lies on those lists of what she ate that day, saying that she had eaten all of her lunch when she'd just managed to eat half of it, but no one even bothered about that. The doctor was so full of "You're too short" to ask her anything. But she might have kept on lying. One thing that she had learned by doing this. You could never trust her to tell the truth. She might not always grace you with it. And she was awfully good at making up stories-everyone else called it writing. But she knew the truth. Making up stories. Writing takes talent. Which she didn't have. The beginning of summer used to mean to her "yay, no more school!" or "yay! Tons more pool!" but now it meant nothing more than the dangers of overeating. She had tried throwing it up before, which would make everything considerably easier, but she was too afraid of that. Afraid that she couldn't do it right, afraid if she would feel sick afterward. She hadn't been strong enough to do that. And now she wasn't even strong enough to do this. She had hated the weekends because it meant increased family time, increased lying. She was sinning all of the time. It was good that no one expected her to believe in a God-She'd be straight in Hell now if she claimed to. God didn't want anything like her in heaven, she was positive of that. She used to be so little, so naïve. Grabbing onto her one instrument of hope, she clenched the paperclip in her left hand. She never cut anywhere else but her right arm. Her right arm. Her friends all claimed to be suicidal, or told her that she made a big deal out of nothing, just for attention. She'd show them. Or maybe they wouldn't even notice. They shouldn't even have to care. Not about her, anyway. She, she didn't even know how to be compassionate. She couldn't make herself stop wishing that everyone would shut up and leave her alone, Sometimes, miraculously, one person out of a bunch would figure this out and shut up, but then she'd be left with that alone feeling, that alone feeling that made it safe for her to hurt herself with that paperclip. And the cutting hurt, but it was okay, because it was worth it. It was like repenting yourself of your sins. With a paperclip. If God wasn't going to watch out for her, she was. Everyone wasn't out to get her, she knew that, somewhere in the back of her mind. But she knew that she was too crazy to listen to her rational self. She felt rational. She was going to be okay. Her original goal for her weight had been ninety-three pounds. And now it was eighty-nine. She would get there, she knew. She was too fat as it was. She just wanted to be stripped of that fat. She wished that it would go away. And never, ever come back. She wondered if she could be able to do it.  
  
I had seen the girl, half-crazed, running across the track. She wasn't particularly fast, she wasn't particularly good, and she was taking up my home territory. I'm the runner, not her. She isn't on the track team like I am, she doesn't have to build up her muscles. But she's small, petite, and I really don't want to hurt her feelings. And plus, she's crying. My mother always used to explain to me that if a girl is crying, she either needs to be left alone or held. And I sure as Hell was not going to hold her. She was crazy. I'd seen the book that she carried around with her at school.books on Anorexia and self-mutilation and all sorts of awful, gruesome things. She had friends, sure, but she always looked alone with them. Not as if I'd looked at her more than I'd looked at any other girl. Some people thought that I was a freak, I knew that, and it looked like a lot of people thought that she was one, too. Especially with the amount of time that she spent talking to the male teachers. And the way that she'd been crying in class lately. That girl needed Prozac. And a high doseage of it. Watching her run around the track for her fifth or sixth time, I had to admire the gumption that she was using. She looked tired, worn, beat up. I would have told her to stop if I hadn't seen that crazy look in her eyes, the crazy look that only crazy people could have. She wouldn't have stopped if I had told her to. I would have only made her run faster. Cautiously, I walked toward the track. My parents were never expecting me home at a certain time, but I myself don't feel comfortable walking around here in the dark. I wanted to get my three miles in before the streetlights were turned on. I'd gotten lost before. It wasn't fun. I was going to step out in front of her, but as she circled my part of the shadows I could hear her breathing heavily, more heavily than runners are supposed to. I would have told her to stop, that she was fatigueing herself. She needed to slow down, she couldn't get dehydrated. Come to think of it, I hadn't seen her eat or drink anything all day. Trying to remember her name, I stepped out of the shadows, ready to yell to her. I could still hear her whispering to herself, things like "I can't care, I won't care, nothing is ever okay, it will be okay, though" and I became worried about her mental health. And then I remembered her name. Summer. Summer Elizabeth Vegas. And when I looked up to call to her, she wasn't there anymore. She was on the ground. I hadn't even seen her fall. Running toward her, letting my track skills get good use, I prayed.. I don't usually pray. I find no point in it. No God would ever be able to hear every single person's prayer and then answer them. There wasn't enough miracle powder. Closer and closer I got to her, willing myself to go faster. I finally knelt before her, glad to find her still breathing. She seemed to be moving, too. Shaking. Maybe she was in the middle of a spazzing session. When I touched her, she flinches, pushing me off with her muscles. But even her flinching was weak. Bending over to peer into her face, trying to see if her eyes were open so that I could tell if she was dehydrated or not, I saw the tears flowing. And suddenly, I wanted to know what was wrong with this girl. For more of a reason than to get her off of my track. I touched her again and this time, she folded, laying on the track she compacted herself to make her smaller than she was even then, putting her arms over her legs and crying into her knees. My brother says that pretty girls need more gentle men. My sister says that every girl needs a gentle man. I didn't know how to be gentle, and I couldn't tell if Summer Elizabeth Vegas was pretty, but I could tell that she needed something, something more than herself. I'd felt like that before. I'd run on the track, crying, because guys aren't supposed to cry, and no one could see my tears if I was running too fast for them. I would be crying, crying about my mother, and my father, and crying for my brother, who wouldn't cry because it wasn't manly, and crying because my sister stopped. I would cry for everyone. I touched Summer's shoulder, knowing that she might not be comfortable with that, and caring, caring way too much. I was only sixteen. And she couldn't have been any more than that. She looked small enough to be twelve, but she was in tenth grade. Summer was crying to the point where she couldn't get a breath in between sobs. Moving my hand in a circular motion on her shoulder, which I figured would be considered a shoulder-rub, I said softly "shh", not knowing where all of my softness was coming from. She kept on crying, though, and it started to get awkward. What if she just wanted me to go away? I was about to get up and leave, leave her to herself, when I looked at her again and saw her, really, really saw her. I knew that I couldn't leave her. I knew that if I left, she would be alone here, on the track, curled up inside of herself. "Are you okay?" I asked, keeping my voice low, so as not to frighten her. You have to be gentle when taming things. I figured that if I asked her a question, politeness would make her answer. Waiting, waiting for her to answer was like torture. I've never been through real torture, but this was how I'd imagined it. "Dizzy" was all she said, and her voice sounded so far away that it scared me. "What have you eaten today?" I questioned, racking my mind for wherever I'd hidden my last Snicker's bar. Quickly, without thinking, comes her answer, "A mini carrot, half a cracker, and three sips of soda." Not even bothering to respond to this, I look at her, not knowing what to think. "Then you need to eat more. And drink something, too." "I can't. I can't. I can't" she starts, and repeats it to herself, further scaring me. I decide not to go forward with that. "Can you sit up?" she's still in her own little circle, but I didn't think she was crying anymore. Until she started again. And she didn't answer me, just kept whispering "I can't, I can't, I can't" until it was almost at the point of driving me insane. Gently, I took her hands and removed them from around her knees. Standing up, I pulled her into a sitting position. "Dizzy. So dizzy" she said, barely audible, and her eyes fluttered. I didn't think that people could get this helpless. It reminded me of how my mother looked. "You really need something to eat. Or something to drink. Can you take that?" "Water" was th curt reply. Not wanting to leave her alone, but knowing that she wouldn't be okay unless I did, I raced for the locker room and my water bottle. When I came back, she had pulled her knees up to her face and was crying. Pitiful sight, tore my heart right out of its place. I gave her the water and she took it slowly. I thought that she might not even be able to get any in her mouth, but she did, and then drank. Not quickly, as I would have, if I was as dehydrated and weak as she was, but demurely. I knew then that to others, she would only look weak. To me, she was a butterfly. Even though I was only sixteen, I had seen true beauty. In Summer. I waited, trying to be patient with this butterfly, until she finished the whole water bottle. When she did, she held it in both hands, looking like she didn't know what to do with it. I stood up, and put an arm down to help her. She took it, and as she got up, I noticed red marks and scares scattered all over her right arm. "Did you hit a thorn bush?" I asked, truly curious. Whatever would hurt this beautiful creature, I was going to cause damage to. "No. A paperclip" she said vaguely, her eyes closing up, refusing to accept me. "Do you want me to walk you home?" I held my breath, hoping, praying that she would. She seemed to consider it for a moment, and soon replied with "If it wouldn't bother you too much". Her, bother me? I wasn't sure that those words could be formed in the same sentence. It wasn't true. I believed, at that time, that Summer would never be able to bother me. 


	2. March 21 Continued

Sitting on the tile floor, wishing that it wasn't so cold in my room, in this house, in this state, I told myself that I would have the control not to look at the scale. I promised that to myself. One day would not change my weight. If it did, my scale would be faulty. I'd seen pictures of those anorexic girls before, their bones sticking out of their emaciated bodies, their eyes hollow, always managing to avoid direct eye contact. I didn't want to be one of those. But there were other pictures of anorexics, and those were the pictures that scared me. The pictures that I couldn't find anything wrong with. Their bodies were fine to me, the bones sticking out weren't too much. They were petite and small and they were standing, they were still standing. I knew that I was crying again, and I hugged my knees. This wasmy comfort position. Other people had comfort foods, but I was stronger than that. I would not get on the scale. I would not get on the scale. Sometimes I thought that people, the people like me, who had"problems" (I really did know that not eating was a problem, I knew it, get off of my case, I understood it, I just couldn't stop, though), I thought that the people who had these types of problems were the most intelligent people in the world. The ones that I knew of were intelligent enough to see that they had a problem, lots of problems, actually. I knew how it started out, I just didn't know why. God help me (I didn't even believe in Him, though, so unfair to Him), I didn't know why it started. I wished that starving wasn't bad. Life would have been perfect if starving wasn't bad. I could just always feel, whenever I ate, those calories building up, the fat storing and storing, I could see the rolls forming and my cheeks bulging, and it made me feel sick, that I could let that happen to myself. I cared too much about myself to make myself that ugly. I wanted to try fasting. I didn't believe in god, I still don't, at least I don't think that I do. Some other people were fasting because of some holiday that's Christian that I can't even remember, and I decided to fast with them. It felt good-I was being religious, you know? I was finally doing something that other people were doing. My father, being Jewish, wouldn't have been happy with my new ability to fast for a religious holiday, so I kept it a secret from my parents. People at school didn't really notice. But that first day of fasting felt so good, I wonder if I could do it more. I'd been looking at people lately, comparing, myself to my friends. I was so fat compared to them-I still am. My thighs and my hips, my breasts, already a 34B in eighth grade, I was small and 116 pounds, overweight. They tried getting me on subtle diets at the doctor's office, my mother would show me pictures of when I was eight years old and explain to me how fat I was then, and then stare pointedly at my jeans, that seemed to grow in size underneath my gaze. I was huge.I still see myself as huge, sometimes. When I ate, I was huge. I was special-I, unlike many women, could see the fat layering on me when I ate. Like any normal person with this gift, I wanted to save myself before it was too late. I wanted to save myself from the fat. I sounded crazy, I knew that I as crazy. I knew that I probably needed help- but what if I was making a mountain out of a molehill? What if I didn't even have a problem? On the one hand, I knew for certain that I had a problem. On the other, I was just stupid enough to persuade myself into believing that I didn't. Successfully avoiding my scale, I drifted slowly back into my bedroom, ignoring the blackness that enfolded my eyes as I stood up, ignoring the way that the ground below me spun out of control as I tried to walk the short distance to my bed. Almost collapsing, I landed on my side, and tried to picture the face of the boy that had helped me that day. On the track. On the track. I had been stupid enough to run around the track at school instead of running around the neighborhood. The neighbors were getting too dangerous, though. A few of them had called my mother to make sure that I was allowed running for such long periods of time. My old friend's mother had told my mother that I was too thin and that I should eat more junk food during sleepovers. Mothers aren't supposed to say those sorts of things. Sleepovers were my enemy. The junk food was so tempting. And I hated eating in front of people. If I had to eat, if I knew that I was just going to die if I didn't eat something, I would eat it alone. I would take a month's worth of chocolate and gummi bears, donuts and sodas, into the dark crevices of my closet and eat through the salt of my tears the foods that I so despised. I would eat it, yet I would feel that incessant guilt while eating it. And after eating, I would either sleep, and sleep, and sleep, or I would exersize, running around and doing jumping jacks like only a crazy person could. I, Summer Elizabeth Veras, was crazy. I knew it. I knew it so well that I couldn't run away from it. Why? Because you can't run away from yourself. I hadn't even bothered to ask the boy his name. He had walked me home, close by, but I hadn't fallen again. I'd cried, but I doubt that he'd noticed. My friends all say that boys don't notice anything. They say that boys don't cry. They say that boys don't have hearts to feel emotions with. All I know was I was glad that that boy was with me today. If only I hadn't been so alone, even as he was walking beside me. I felt myself drifting off to sleep, and even though I tried to fight it I knew that my body would only fight right back. As always, nothing having to do with me agreed. There were always arguments going on inside of me. Arguments that I couldn't tell anyone else. See how much I hated myself? I wouldn't have been able to take everyone else's full blown hatred, too.  
  
5:23 5:23 5:24 the neon numbers glowed into my face as I stared at my watch, waiting for the crosswalk light to shine "WALK" which I would willingly do. Of course, I had no exact curfew to follow on school days, nor school nights, for that matter. After living in NYC, my parents figured that I would be safe walking anywhere, anytime. As long as I came home safe and sound, they promised to trust me because of my "nice head on your brilliant shoulders". They had warned me, though, that if I missed dinner I would have to fend for myself. And with dinner being at precisely five-thirty every single night, that night I was pushing it. The crosswalk sign flashed, and I followed its directions. Unable to resist, once I was on the safe sidewalk I turned around to gaze at Summer's house again. The only light on in the entire house was the one upstairs. In Summer's room. She had explained to me, when walking toward her house, that she was home alone from the time that she returned from school until seven, when her mother returned from work with her little twin sisters, Megan and Morgan, in tow. I kept on remembering, no matter how hard I tried to knock it out of my head, the way that Summer had whispered "No. A paperclip" after I asked where her crude scratches had come from. It hadn't registered before, but it was slowly coming to my mind. The paperclip hadn't accidentally run into Summer. She had run into the paperclip. And how, when I asked what she had eaten that day, Summer instantly replied with one-eighteenth of what she should have eaten. And again, I had that overwhelming feeling. I wanted to wrap my arms around Summer, protect her from the world surrounding us, and more importantly, protect her form herself. I wanted her to lay her head down on my shoulder, not in defeat but only in rest, and I wanted her to cry until she couldn't.  
  
I wanted Summer more than I wanted my dinner. I thought then that Summer would never bother me. It never occurred to me that maybe Summer had jumped in way above my head. It didn't occur to me until after I had bothered. 


	3. March 22 AM

Thanks for the review!!! *Finally!*  
  
Gentle rays woke me from the dark. I shifted slightly, saving myself from falling off of my bed. The clock gently blinked 5:45, telling me that I could go back to sleep for another half hour, if I really wanted to. But I didn't. I reached down to pull the covers up and over my head, blocking me from those evil sun's rays, when I felt the burning in my arm. In my right arm. Ignoring the pain behind my eyes, I diverted my gaze downward, resting it on the thirteen new red scratches. Almost like a cat's scratches. If only we had a cat. Sighing, I closed my eyes and conjured back the memories from last night. Or should I say this morning? At 1:53, I had woken, woken to the noises of my sobbing sister in the next room. Megan was at that stage where she was afraid to sleep in her own bed-she was seven, and still afraid of monsters and creatures of darkness. Even though she had it better than me. She had Morgan in her room, too, and they could be scared with each other. But after three incessant minutes of her pitiful sobbing, I decided to take on the role of mature older sister and help her. Ignoring the blackness blocking my vision as I stood up, and trying to step through the dizzy circles of the floor, I picked my way to the twins' room. "Meggie?" I whispered, taking comfort in the fact that my littlest sister still believed in my sanity. "Meggie, it's Summer. It's okay". Somehow, I tiptoed to her bed and managed to sit before falling. Megan crawled out from underneath her stifling sheets and promptly grabbed hold of my arm, crying and sobbing as no child ever should. I hugged her, fiddled with her hair, imagining what it would be like to not be crazy. Imagining what it would be like to comfort your little sister all of the time. Loving that feeling of love. "There are things here, Summer" Megan whispered, her voice hoarse and terrified. "There are things here and Morgan doesn't see them. Why can I see them, Summer? Why can I see them?" she was asking me a question that I couldn't answer. I was too busy wondering exactly what things she saw. I saw things, too, things that I had convinced myself no one saw. I saw scary things like fat, horrendous ugly monsters that eat up your bones and make you ugly, just like them. But, looking at my sister's shivering figure, I understood that those weren't the monsters that she saw. I drew her into my lap, kissed the top of her head, rubbed her back like that boy had done for me on the track. I told her that I knew, and that the monsters were scary but that they would go away. They had left Morgan and she had forgotten about them. "Do you see them, Summer?" she had questioned, and I could hear the hope in her voice, She hoped that I could see them, too. And suddenly I was filled with an anger, an anger at my poor sweet sister. But how could something so sweet wish that evilness upon me? Why would she want to make me cry? And then I realized that Megan was just like me. She wanted someone else to share her pain. She only wanted someone who understood what she meant and could empathize with her. And then I got mad at me for getting mad at her. This poor thing, shivering in her pajamas that were too big, because Megan had been born petite. I was awful like that. I got mad at the stupidest things, got mad at other people for what they couldn't even help, and they didn't deserve my anger. So then I would transfer it unto myself. Exactly like repenting your sins. Exactly. I tucked Megan back into bed, told her a story, turned on a nightlight, and then I left, knowing that she just wanted me to stay and comfort her some more, keep her safe, but knowing that I shouldn't be allowed the privelage of loving someone. After leaving my sisters' room, I had gone back to mine, sitting on the floor and staring listlessly, trying to make myself feel better. I wanted- no, I needed to repent myself of the anger that I had felt toward Megan. Taking the paperclip, I had methodically, up and down motion, cut. I had drawn blood four times, cutting myself thirteen times. And when I woke up at 5:45 the next morning, those cuts burned. And I stared at them, remembering how I had shivered in bed when I was okay, when I had repented myself. I remembered shivering in bed and crying, and then hating myself for those tears. I had no reason to cry. I had been bad. So bad. I hated myself for being crazy. Hated myself so much that I wanted to cut myself thirteen more times. But I had been too tired to reach for the paperclip again. Too lazy to hurt. My eyes drifted back to my clock. 6:02. Time to get up. Time to start thinking of reasons why I wouldn't eat breakfast.  
  
Downing my second glass of milk, I snuck a glance at my dad. He looked half asleep, as always. My sister was missing from the table, and I wondered if she had ever come home last night. My brother ate with a gusto. We had prepared today's breakfast. Slightly-burnt eggs and underdone toast. But it was still eatable, and so long as it was eatable we would eat it. "Who's going to bring the tray up to Mom?" I asked, knowing the answer already. My dad had had enough of my mother last night. My brother had to leave earlier than I did for school. My sister hadn't even decided to grace us with her presence today, but I knew, just by looking into her eyes, that she was afraid of seeing our mother. I knew that I was going to bring the tray to my mother. And it was almost scary. My mother was depending on me for her food. Reaching for the milk container, I thought of Summer's eyes, the way that they had looked through her tears last night on the walk from track to home. Because I was so intent on my thoughts, Jake got to the milk first. He laughed, teasing me, and I watched helplessly as the last drop of milk dribbled into his cereal bowl. My brother was a pig. Toast, cereal, eggs, not to mention the last of the milk. "There's another container in the fridge, Danny" my father, ever the avoider of a conflict, said. I shrugged it off. Two glasses of milk was enough. And the way that my brother and I go through it, I might as well save it to have some for tomorrow's breakfast. I plopped my dishes into the sink, saying "Jake, you got the milk, you got the dishes" and grabbed the tray to carry to my mother. After climbing the stairs, I opened her door softly, not being able to help holding my breath, just in case she was asleep. It was hard for her to sleep these days, and I didn't want to disturb whatever slumber she could catch. "Jessica?" I heard her soft voice, filled with hope. "It's Danny, Mom" I replied, wishing that for once Jessica had been brave enough to come and see my mother. I knew that it was hard for her, being the youngest and the only girl, but she was old enough to accept the fact that our mother was sick and needed our help. Fourteen, in some countries, is old enough to be married and have children. "It's fine, Danny" my mother said with a small smile. "You know that I love seeing you, but I was hoping that Jessica and I could talk." her voice trailed off, leaving me to think of the numerous things that Jessi and Mom would talk about. Make-up, clothes, boys, death. A fourteen-year-old and her mother are supposed to talk about everything, aren't they? Hey, I wouldn't know. I'm a guy. "What're you thinking of, Daniel?" my mother asked as I set the tray down before her. I fought within myself, wondering if I should tell her about Summer, my new love. But seeing my mother there, lying frail on the bed, I didn't want to worry her anymore with my problems. I was just a boy, a sixteen-year-old boy, lovesick for almost the first time with a girl, a girl with some problems. Nothing more than I could handle. All Summer needed was someone to be there. That was all that she needed, I was positive. Summer and I, we could take on the world. At least, that's what I thought. 


	4. March 22 Continued

There were two times every weekday when I would routinely look at the clock of whatever room I was in and wish that time would slow itself. At the end of the schoolday, or 3:37, and now. Mr. Peterson continued mercilessly-he was on a roll about Romeo and Juliet. English class, being the sole class now that held my attention for its full hour, was always hard for me to leave. "Petrarchan love is a flop. The typical Petrarchan lover often has the victim mentality. He or she believes that they are a slave for this love. That he or she was predestined to suffer. Petrarchan lovers are intelligent but misinformed. Brittany?" "If, at the beginning, Romeo is a typical Petrarchan lover, then how did he suddenly change for Juliet?" Brittany used to be my best friend, but we had drifted apart. Although people still attached us together. As if we weren't enough by ourselves and had to come in a package. The "Brittany and Summer Package". "Brittany," I jerked myself out of my reverie as Mr. Peterson started talking again. "That is the one fault of Shakespeare. He does not always explain why." As if by magic, the lunch bell rang. It signified the end of English class, the beginning of lunch. Everything around me was a flurry of activity. I sat. Shakespeare's main fault was that he didn't explain why. But what if he couldn't? What if it wasn't possible to answer all of those why's? I was crazy. I was so crazy that it overtook me. My craziness outnumbered my sanity. Why was I crazy? Because I was. I was born that way. Deformed brain, an ugly mind. But I wasn't crazy last year. Last year, I was perfect. I had been Summer Elizabeth Veras, the girl who knew where she was going, made straight A's, laughed all the time, had a fun sense of humor. Now, I Was that same girl on the outside. A superficial plastic Barbie look-alike. But on the inside, I was crazy. I was crazy, no one would like the real me, if they knew. If they knew what I thought and how angry I got. I was afraid, so afraid. Someone was going to find out about me. But at the same time, no one cared enough to try finding out. Which was what I wanted, because I wanted people to like me. But if people knew me, they wouldn't like me. I had to hide behind my smile, behind my plastic eyes and nose and mouth. I couldn't ever show the real me in front of people. I couldn't get too close to people-what if they really didn't like me? I knew that I wouldn't be able to take all of that hate. I couldn't even take my own hatred. "Summer? Are you all right?" I could barely hear the voice, it was coming from somewhere far away, and I didn't want to hear it. I had to think. I had to understand everything. I couldn't leave anything out. I was crazy. I was so angry. I always repented myself of my anger. That was okay. I could get angry-no matter how much I hated myself whenever I did. But being crazy, there was no way to forgive that. Had I been born with it? It wasn't anyone's fault but my own. I deserved it, I deserved being crazy. But I had to find a way to deal with it so that no one else had to know- because that would hurt them. And I hated hurting people. Hurting people hurt me so bad.and there I was again, going off about me. Why was I so selfish? Someone hurt me for me.I can't take it anymore. Hurt me, please. "Summer?" "Sorry, Mr. Peterson" I wanted to say, I wanted to say that and then smile and thank him for the interesting class discussion and then leave to sit and eat lunch with my friends, like I had done last year. But that wasn't going to happen. I was too crazy for that. I could feel myself crying, the tears streaming, and it made me even more mad than ever. A red hot anger, traveling all over the place, through my throat and hurrying, hitting my heart. No one could see me. I had to be invisible. Someone had to hurt me. I put my head in my hands, forcing myself to believe that those old childish thoughts were right-if I couldn't see Mr. Peterson, he couldn't see me. It didn't work out that way. "Summer, are you having family problems?" Mr. Peterson was sitting in the chair next to me. I felt him. And I didn't want him there. How dare he ask if we were having family problems? He was blaming other people for me. I was just a mistake. Just something to blame everything else on. But no one wanted to blame me because they were so nice-didn't want to hurt my feelings. I wanted to hurt everyone else's feelings, but they didn't want to hurt mine. I was so unfair. I hated it. I ignored that familiar blackness as a stood, steadying myself without looking up, without closing my eyes, wishing that I could just be normal. Wishing that I wasn't so bad. But wishing didn't get you anywhere. "I'm sorry, Mr. Peterson. I've just been having some problems in math and that test that we took today.it was an awful grade." Mr. Peterson assured me that I had done better than I believed, and walked me out of his room. I ran, ran away from him. Ran straight to the bathroom, but wasn't brave enough to go in. There were always groups of girls in the bathroom, and you could only cry in empty bathrooms. I was crying already, I might as well just stand there and take it. Crazy minds always wander, that's what everyone said. Well, no one really talked about craziness, the mental illness, but she would assume that crazy minds wondered. Maybe that's what made them crazy. My mind was already on that boy.that nameless boy. I didn't even know the name. His name. He had been so nice to me. Had I been a normal girl, I would have been falling in love. But I wasn't normal. I was crazy. Not caring, just not taking the time and effort to care anymore, I let myself into the girl's bathroom. Not even checking to see if it was empty, I let myself fall onto the cool, hard tile. It was lunch time. Today, I wasn't strong enough, I wasn't brave enough, to say no to the food. Today my hunger would overtake me, and then I would have to run again. So tired, too tired for running. Better just to hide, and not deal with the food. Everything was better when you ran away from it. Everything.  
  
"Tell me that you hate me. Tell me that you hate me. Tell me that I'm awful. Tell me the truth." I tried to close my ears at that, at what Summer was saying. I tried to think of peaceful things like rainbows. Maybe I had been stupid to follow her into the bathroom. But looking at her, watching her cry (she must have had more water in her than Niagra Falls did). All I knew was that I had seen her, leaning against the bathroom door, eyes wide with fright, she was afraid of something, and her tears only made my heart rip furhter. And then when she had gone into the bathroom, and I had watched the door for five minutes, and then ten, and she still hadn't come out, I knew that something was wrong. I had gone into the girl's bathroom (yes, the girl's bathroom, forbidden territory to all males) All I wanted to do was help her, was see her smile. My Summer would look so pretty if she only smiled, every once in a while. It was hurting my heart even more with every word that she spoke. She was instructing me to say those things to her, when I knew that she only wanted someone to love her. I was ready, I was willing to be there for her, but she obviously didn't want my help. She needed it, though. She hated me. I knew it. She hated me and wanted me to go away. She wanted me to tell her what she wanted the truth to be-that I hated her, and always had, and that I would leave her alone. But I wasn't going to tell her those lies. Those lies hurt me even to think of them. Summer was mine, and she might not like it, but I knew that I was a decent enough guy. I would try and save her from the world, I would save her from hurt and anger and betrayal and I would always try to be their for her. It couldn't have been more obvious, though, that Summer hated me. When I was with Summer, words seemed stupid. Words didn't mean anything, it was just the fact that we were together, and when we were together the world around us stopped. Nothing else mattered. At least for me. She hated me, so it was probably different for her. I thought that she would never be a bother. It didn't feel like that was possible. I held her close, wishing that she would hold me back, but she only stared, stared with those dull eyes. She wasn't even crying at this point, just staring, and I wished that she would stop, or say something, something like "I love you". "Tell me the truth," she instructed, her eyes never leaving mine. That eye contact, those perilous eyes of hers, they held me in, locked me in, I couldn't move even if I wanted to. But I didn't. She was with me, Summer, she was a part of me, and I wouldn't be able to let her go. "Tell me the truth" she prodded again, moving nothing save for her lips. It was going to burst, I couldn't hold it back any longer. "I love you," I said breathlessly, wishing with all of my being that she would only say those three words back to me. But she didn't. It almost didn't change anything when she stood up. She weighed close to nothing when she was sitting on my lap, so standing up made no difference. But when she left the bathroom, left it without even a backward glance.that changed something. Everything. I didn't love her any less. Oh no. But I knew that My Summer was a gentle summer butterfly. I knew that I would need to tame her, woo her, gain her trust as if she was a gentle doe. It wasn't going to be easy, but I thought that Summer would never be able to bother me. I thought that Summer would never, ever hurt me. 


	5. March 22 the looooongest daaaaay in the ...

I wished that he would have told me the truth. If he had just said "I hate you" things would have been easier. I, of course, always took the easy way out. Losing my fat would have been much healthier had I just stuck to a diet. But I took the easy way out. Stop eating. I couldn't even do it completely. I would have a carrot here, a soda there, and I was sometimes too tired to run or too afraid to throw it up. He hadn't said "I hate you". He had done the opposite. And that was scary. People who claimed to love you always turned around on you and hurt you more. People you lived with called you "Fatty" and your best friends told you that you couldn't be popular because you weren't pretty enough. Anyone could hurt you. But it was harder for your enemies-they weren't close enough to do any true damage. At least not usually.  
  
I hated my life. It all revolved around food and what other people said. I always had to read in between the lines because I knew what people could do to you if youdidn't. They could ruin your whole entire self-image. I knew that one piece of pizza wasn't going to make me too much fatter than I already was. I knew that weight normally fluctuates daily, and a gained pound every once in a while would soon turn to one lost. But I would rather have had them all lost. I felt like a monster. I was dirty whenever I ate. I had read that somewhere. You were dirty if you ate, and you had to fast until your system was clear and you were clean again. It fit me perfectly. So I was weak, so I was frail. Some books said that I was just trying to keep my childhood. They said that I yearned to be little all of my life-I didn't want a figure, I didn't want to grow up. Like Peter Pan. I don't know what I wanted. Does anyone ever know what they truly want? Doesn't everything change? Nothing stays the same. Goals grow with you-as you get taller, so do your goals. Unless you were me. Because I wasn't growing. I was impairing my growth. And I knew it. But every time I ate a full meal (which wasn't very often then) I felt so bad, I felt so sick, gave me headaches and stomachaches, and I would lose weight just from worrying about gaining weight. It was a rude cycle that I just wanted to be out of.  
  
But I didn't want to be out of it enough. If I had wanted it enough, I could have gotten out. Even me, the girl who really wasn't anything, who really was nothing, who really wasn't worth it. She could have saved herself, she could have gotten out.  
  
If only that boy hadn't told me that he loved me. Those were the words that I had most wanted to hear, and yet the words that I was most afraid of. If someone loved me, I would let them get to know me. I wasn't strong at all-aside from being able to ignore food, but as more days wore on and as my hunger grew to a level I felt that I couldn't control, my ability to refuse food was weakening. If someone loved me, I would get close to them. So close that I wouldn't be able to keep my craziness a secret. And no one loved crazy people. Did they? I didn't want to take the chance. I needed to be loved. I didn't love myself, so someone else had to love me. But by loving me, they would get to know me, and knowing me would cause them to run from me. And a love lost stung worse than a love that never even began in the first place.  
  
I had told someone once. Had told them about how crazy I was, had described how diferent my mind was from everyone else's. I knew that it was selfish to think that my mind was good enough to be different, but that wasn't the same. My mind wasn't "special" in a good way. My mind was "special" in the way that I was crazy. When I told him of my fears, he only said, softly, "You're not crazy. You're just confused". And so there I was branded as confused, and still knowing in my mind that I had to be crazy. He had said "Everyone is going through changes in their lives now. You just don't know how to deal with yours. It's not your fault". But it was my fault, everything was my fault. Starving myself-that wasn't my parent's fault, my family had nothing to do with it. Yes, my first memory was of being branded as fat by my family when I was eight, but that wouldn't cause me to starve. I was fat, and at first I cared too much to let myself go like that. And then, after I started, I couldn't stop caring about being thin. I didn't want to be "thin", I wanted to be "skinny". All of my friends were called "skinny", and I was just called "average" after a while. After the first twenty-five pounds I was average. And here I was, working on my second twenty-five, making new goals every day, watching the scale like a hawk to make sure that I didn't get over 100. The one that I had told everything hadn't thought that I was crazy.  
  
But he had never told me that he loved me. This.boy.he was only a boy. He didn't need to be burdened with her problems. They always said that males matured much slower than females did. I didn't want to speed him up. I didn't want him to hate me. I just didn't want to be hated.  
  
Walking toward the table where my "friends" were, I tried to work up a smile. They thought that I was turning weird already. It wouldn't help if my eyes were red still from crying and my mouth was set in a tight frown.  
  
"Summer!" Brittany called, inviting me over with her words. I didn't want to go. My stomach hurt so much, their food looked so good, I didn't think that I would be able to reject it. "Do you want some?" she offered me a chocolate chip cookie. Maybe any other cookie, I could have had three bites of. But chocolate chip? If I ate around the chocolate chips it would have been okay.  
  
"No, thanks," I refused, still smiling, although my face was aching with the effort. "I just had a big lunch". And I wondered how I'd learned to lie so much.  
"Danny?" I looked up, hoping, wishing, yearning, that maybe, just possibly, Summer could have gotten better. Maybe she had come to her senses and was coming back to tell me that she was sorry, that she was only afraid, that she was only just so delicate, and that she loved me, too. "Danny, this is the girl's bathroom. You might want to get out before like Amanda and her group come in and freak". Knowing that it wasn't Summer because of her tone of voice, I looked up to see Heather Dillan. A cute kid. She was sixteen, just like me. Some of her friends had told me that she had a crush on me last year. She was pretty. Her hair was long and dark and silky. Her eyes.now that I was looking at them, were brown and intelligent. That was the best kind of brown. Come to think of it, by looks, she was probably prettier than Summer. She, unlike Summer, actually had a figure. We'd been really close friends in fifth grade, but then Heather's parents had split and she'd moved away for two years. When she'd come back, she had grown up, she had changed, and she had wanted friends that were girls. Not that I held it against her or anything.  
  
I guess that it must have taken me a while to respond, since I was so busy comparing her to Summer (which, by the way, I would start doing with every girl that glanced in my direction or spoke to me). "Danny, are you okay?" I nodded, but wasn't much in the mood to talk. I don't think that she would have been in such a dandy mood if she had just confessed her love and gotten walk out on. And if she was sitting in the middle of the guy's bathroom cross-legged, like some sort of freak or something. "Danny, you can tell me if something's the matter," she said softly, and I wanted to tell her, wanted to tell her how much I loved Summer, and how I wanted to help her out and save her from whatever was hurting her, but then I remembered that this was just my test. Our test. Summer and I had to make it through those challenges alone, or else we would fail. I would persist and I would eventually prevail, and Summer would learn to love me, also.  
  
"It's just my mom," I responded, which was also true. She was looking paler these days, needing more rest but only being able to sleep less. All of these women in my life that I loved were beginning to give me problems.  
  
Heather offered an arm to help me up, which I took. I loved Summer, don't get me wrong, but I almost wished that she could be more like Heather, and strong enough for me to lean on her when I couldn't pick myself up. But Summer just needed me then, and once she was okay I could need her. "You're mom'll be fine. She's lived through it for a while, and there's no reason why she can't keep it up. How's your dad doing? And Jessica?"  
  
I found myself telling her things that I should have been telling Summer, things that I knew Summer would care about if she wasn't so afraid. "My dad is just out of it. Jessi's scared, though. I don't know much what to do about her. My mother only wants to talk to her but Jessi won't even go see her." Heather slid her hand into mine and I could feel her adding pressure to squeeze it comfortingly. I kept that in the back of my mind. I would have to hold Summer's hand and comfort her that way, too, when she stopped being so afraid of me.  
  
"Do you think that maybe I could invite myself over to dinner tonight? It's Thursday, isn't it, but I won't stay late. Maybe I could help you make dinner, talk to your mom, we could hang with Jessi for a while."  
  
I found myself nodding. I found myself doing a lot of things when talking to Heather Dillan. Such as telling her that yes, it would be fine if she came to dinner tonight. Such as letting her lead me out of the bathroom. Such as letting her kiss my cheek and then kissing her on the lips. Such as forgetting about Summer as I walked Heather to her next class, English. Such as promising to meet by the bleachers after school so that I could run and she could watch, and then we'd head back to my house together. And, when walking back to my class, I thought that Summer wouldn't mind if I invited a girl over. I thought that Summer wouldn't be hurt. I thought that Summer wouldn't be bothered because she hadn't bothered to bother me. 


	6. More of March 22

After school, I walked to my locker. I was feeling better today. I'd relented-had half of Brittany's chocolate chip cookie. And some Gatorade. Today had been a Bad Day. All of my bad foods that I had consumed-I had to get them out of me, somehow. I was so dirty. And whenever I ate, I always had that feeling that I was either a) too full or b) not full enough. I also felt like I was dirty, and I needed to be cleansed of that dirt. That dirt that was food. It was wrong, and I knew it, but I didn't know how to help it. I didn't want to bother people. I'd bothered one other person. A girl. Brittany. I'd told Brittany about my fears. And she told me that I was just wanting attention and that I should stop and let other people get the limelight. She said that I didn't have to be perfect at everything and that I didn't always have to be the center of attention. I guess that she was right. My best friend had told me that I was too.I didn't even know the word. Just too something that I didn't want to be. Self-centered, maybe. And maybe that wasn't even what she meant. But it's what I gathered and I understood then that I was self-centered, whether people agreed with me or no. I was crazy, too.  
  
I hadn't felt like throwing up that day. I'd decided, instead, that I could run around the track for an hour-maybe two, if I wasn't too shaky by then. And then maybe the weight room would still be open and I could do some pull-ups on the bar, and push-ups and sit-ups on the mat. I did everything in certain increments. And then, maybe I could go home and my parents and sisters would be in bed, and I could run up and down the stairs. That was the best exersize for me. I kept on running up and down two more times each time-I'd been doing it for three days and I was on running up fifteen times and down fifteen times. And I was getting stronger and faster, too. It was sort of scary, though, because after a certain number of stairs, I would start to feel dizzy, and I couldn't look down or else I would start falling forward. I had fallen, once, but I'd gotten up.it hadn't been too bad of a fall.  
  
I was cold, but I knew that I might get hot after running for an hour. It was sunny. Like it had been for the past week or two. Eighty- something degrees. I stripped off my sweater and my two outer shirts, leaving only my undershirt and then bra. I was always cold in the mornings, and too tired to strip myself down to my undershirt. It was cozy under all of those layers. And I could hide my fat body from everyone. All ninety- three pounds of me. I set everything on the bleachers and bent over to stretch a little bit. My back crackled as I bent, touching my toes, and the world spun slightly. I should have been used to it by then, but my heart still fluttered unusually whenever the world spun. I made myself count to ten before rising slowly, and then sat on the bleachers to stop the spinning. In the distance, I could see two figures coming toward me. But not many people ran out here after school. This was the old track-the new track was cleaner and had less footprints on it. I decided to ignore the people. I started to run and I could feel my fat-but it didn't make sense because when I looked down, my hip bones were sticking out and if I sucked in just a little bit, my rib cage was visible.  
  
While running, I let myself fall into my old memories. I remembered, one fine day, I had eaten nothing. I was staring in the mirror before I stepped into the warm, burning fire water of the shower, and I smiled, unable to contain my joy. I could see it. I was thinner already . I could see it in my face, my body was a nice shape, I was fine. I stepped into the shower and cried, like I always did in the shower, but those were tears of joy.  
  
The next day, someone made me eat. Someone. Made me eat. All three meals. It was my grandmother. And it was a Saturday and Brittany and I couldn't do anything because she was going kayacking or something with her family. Mom had taken Megan and Morgan to ballet and Dad was working in his office. And so I was basically alone with the grandmother all day. All three meals, she made me eat. That night, as I stepped into the shower, I caught a look of myself in the mirror that made me turn around to double- check myself. I could see it already. The fat, it was there. I kept the shower water on, listened at the door to make sure that no one was outside snooping on me, and then I bent over the toilet. It didn't take very long. I looked back in the mirror when I was done and I wasn't thin, but I wasn't so bad either. It made me feel better. That night, when I cried in the shower, they were tears of fear. I was so afraid. That day, I knew that I was crazy. Because only crazy people can see their weight change after throwing up.  
  
That's what I thought, at least.  
  
I turned the corner just in time to see that boy, that boy who said that he loved me, that.I didn't even know his name. I turned the corner just in time to see him kissing another girl. A pretty girl. A thin girl. Heather Dillan.  
  
I should have believed myself. Believed that he didn't love me, no matter what he and his eyes said. It was just so hard to listen to a mind that argued so much. Argued so much that the mind itself could never come up with a solution. It was so hard for me to try to believe myself. He didn't love me.  
  
It hurt so bad. It hurt so bad that it took my mind off of food.  
  
Heather and I had promised to meet at the picnic tables at three- thirty. My watch said three-thirty and there I was, the only geek who would ever make it on time to the picnic tables. But as my watch slid to 3:31, I became nervous. A pretty girl like Heather, what would she want to do with me? She had friends, come to think of it, she had a whole entire life. Daniel. Why would she want to do something with Daniel and his lame-ass mother and sister?  
  
I sat down on the table, feeling like a jerk and a retard for believing a pretty girl again. Summer, the prettiest girl in my eyes, I didn't even believe her. She didn't believe herself. That was why.  
  
I closed my eyes, figuring I'd give the pretty girl ten minutes. And then, if she didn't show, I would just run around the track as I'd planned. It would be okay. It didn't matter much. It wasn't as if Heather had told me that she was madly in love with me or interested in me as anything but a friend. Things like that still hurt, though.  
  
"Danny? Are you ready to run?"  
  
"You're late," immediately after saying those words, though, I felt guilty. My eyes had opened magically at the sound of Heather's voice and she looked even prettier than she had before.  
  
"Am I?" she asked absent-mindedly, smiling halfway at me. "Sorry. My watch says 3:31. And Lilia wanted me to see something, a note or something that her new 'secret admirer' gave her. I think that was what it was. So, I thought that you wanted to run? If you don't, we can head back to your house, but I figured that this would give me a chance to do my homework so I could actually eat dinner."  
  
Yeah, I was a jerk. I forgot that watches weren't all synchronized. So my watch ran two minutes ahead of hers. "Sorry, Heather. I just get uptight sometimes-"  
  
"Don't even mention it, Danny. But we really should get to the track."  
  
We walked at a nice pace. I liked it that way. She wasn't ahead of me, I wasn't ahead of her. We were close enough to hold hands but we were comfortable the way that we were. I liked that walk better than chasing Summer, to be sure. But, I reminded myself, I only had to tame Summer. Once she wasn't so afraid, we would walk just like this. And we would even hold hands.  
  
We talked about things, school and our favorite foods, and then we got to the track. Someone was already running on it, but it wasn't a very fast person, whoever it was. Heather sat on the benches, next to a pile of clothes. I squinted, trying to make out the person running. Whoever wore that many clothes to come to school in what felt like hundred-degree weather must have been crazy. I couldn't tell from that far away, though. A petite person. Heather smiled at me. I shivered. And then I smiled back. People being nice to me, pretty girls trying to be my friend, it didn't happen every day.  
  
"I'm going to.start running now," I said, knowing that it was lame but not having any idea what else to say. And so I started to run, before Heather answered, and I didn't look back, afraid that maybe she'd be gone. Maybe she was just an apparition appearing to me for no apparent reason. And maybe she would fade away. Maybe Summer would fade away, too.  
  
I ran faster, trying to overtake the person ahead of me. A little game that I'd played ever since I was little. Danny had to be the fastest, had to beat every kid in races at the neighborhood. This person was no different. But as I picked up speed and drew closer to the tiny frame, I knew that I wouldn't overtake her. Summer. No, she didn't seem to be an apparition. Maybe she was fading away, and maybe she wasn't, though. In one way, she seemed almost smaller, more petite, more fragile than before. In the other, she hadn't dissappeared. She had appeared, right in front of me, to be exact. We were destined to be together, and I knew it. Knew it even as she ran away from me, farther and farther, heading in the opposite direction. I knew that Summer would be able to run, but she wouldn't be able to hide. Not forever, at least. Not forever.  
  
I set my mind back on Heather, thought of what we were going to make for dinner that night. I wasn't going to think about Summer. Before I thought of Summer, Summer had to think for herself.  
  
No, Summer would never be able to bother me. Just like a mosquito would never be able to bother me. 


	7. Guess what day it still is

I knew that it was selfish of me. Wanting that boy all to myself when he deserved someone better than me. I had let myself believe that maybe someone could love me.maybe they wouldn't be teasing, and maybe it wouldn't be a joke. But when I saw that boy and that girl together, I knew that I was living in a lie.  
  
I wished that I could be a mosquito some days. Or even better, so tiny that I was invisible. I would have been content with living in some stranger's house and doing nothing but watching them, day by day, night by night. I wouldn't have had to be noticed, I wouldn't have had to be loved and pampered and cared for. I would just like to be there, watching, watching. I wouldn't even need food. I wished that I was a ghost-that my only job would be haunting people. That I wouldn't need to care about what I looked like every morning, what grades I got, who I ate lunch with, and who invited me to their house on the weekends. I wished that I could stop living. That was it.  
  
I could analyze myself better than any psychiatrist would ever be able to. I wondered if all crazy people were that talented. Einstein was probably crazy, schizophrenic or something, and that's what made him so brilliant.  
  
There were many causes to my not eating. Not like I could even not eat all of the way. I thought these things to myself as I ran away from that boy, who was running after me, always chasing me, with that strage girl staring at his back. I ran into the woods. I didn't even like the woods. They were dirty, held all sorts of disgusting creatures that I usually avoided at all costs.  
  
I didn't want to eat anymore. I knew that by not eating, I would eventually destruct my body. But I didn't want to live anyway-I wanted to live the life of, if anything, a mosquito. If I was Buddhist and believed in reincarnation, I would have been positive that I would be some low, degrading creature in the next life because of all of my wrongdoings in this one. Starving myelf would turn me into that living, breathing ghost that no one noticed. I would have been able to just sit there and watch all of the people that I wanted to watch, and I would have been too small, almost nonexistant, for anyone to see.  
  
I was also afraid of growing up. My sisters, Megan and Morgan, couldn't wait to be big and fifteen like I was. They couldn't wait to wear makeup and pretty bathing suits, go on dates with boys, and be getting their permits and planning for their sweet sixteens. I, on the other hand, though, did none of that. I was too fat to wear a pretty bathing suit, too ugly for makeup, and the combination of both those and my craziness kept the boys away from me. And why plan a sweet sixteen when you can't stand what friends you do have?  
  
As I was getting older, I was realizing that life was challenging. And I just wasn't strong enough to deal with those challenges. I didn't know how. It was all too hard for me to think about, too scary for me to lay up alone at night in bed and concentrate on. It sent shivers down my spine and caused me endless nights of no rest or of streaming tears. I wished, almost as often as they wished to be me, to be Megan and Morgan, carefree seven-year-olds who lived their lives as princesses and did ballet.  
  
I wasn't strong enough to deal with life's challenges, no. But death's challenges, I felt up to par with. I was strong enough to starve myself-just not all the way. I got so mad at myself for every carrot eaten, anything caloric that I shoved into my mouth. I taught myself how to throw up on command, how to run up and down stairs, how to block out dizziness and how to curve fainting spells.  
  
Most of all, though. I learned how to lie. I learned how to look people straight in the eye and lie while all the time hoping, wishing, that they would be able to read it in my eyes. That they would be able to look at me and think "wow, she's lying, what an incredibly horrible liarr she is. I wonder why she does it?" But no one had asked me those questions, and I didn't want to volunteer the information myself. Why not? Because that would be self-centered, spoiled, childish. There were girls, Brittany, my former best friend included, who did that.  
  
She called herself anorexic, but she didn' think that she was fat. She starved herself for no apparent reasons. Or pretended to. She loved sugar. And I couldn't help thinking that Brittany probably did starve herself better than I did. She was thinner, anyway. She said that she weighed ninety-five pounds, but that was how much I weighed. Iwas planning to go to the nurse tomorrow for some Advil and ask her to weigh me too, though, just to double check. Maybe my scale at home was wrong. It probably was. I was probably a fat pig and weighed a hundred pounds. Or at least ninety-eight. Fat.  
  
Brittany also told people that her mother called her a bitch. She also told people that she cut herself with knives. And here I was with paperclips, thinking that it was a big deal. Brittany put me to shame. Everyone did. Iwasn't strong enough. I couldn't even not eat properly. I had carrots or cucumbers or celery, water, and sometimes lemonade. Sometimes I just couldn't say no to the chocolate. And sometimes I binged. I was weak. And so I binged.  
  
Bingeing is technically eating 1000 calories or more in one sitting. Stuffing your mouth when you're already full to the point where it feels like explosion. I Would do that, periodically. I would go days and days living off of carrots and celery and then one day, out of the blue, I would pick up a chocolate bar and eat it. A bag of chips and eat it. And I wanted to stop eating, I wanted to tell myself, force myself to put that chocolate bar down, but I couldn't. My stomach was happy but my conscience would be screaming at me, yelling, making me cry, making the tears come faster and faster.  
  
After my bingeing episodes, I had to hide the food. Once I had left it in the open, and my parents had found it. Told me that I would start getting fat again if I kept on eating that much food. And that scared me. I didn't want to get fat. I didn't. I would rather have died than get fat. Obviously.  
  
After hiding my bingeing food, I would find some way to get rid of it. Usually, running up and down the stairs fifty to one hundred times, along with one hundred sit-ups, one hundred push-ups, and two-hundred jumping jacks was enough to make me feel slightly less guilty. Sometimes, I would be brave enough to throw it up. That always scared me, though, and after throwing up I just felt dirtier than before. And no irregular amount of showers would ever, ever make me clean again.  
  
I always wanted somebody to confide in. But I wanted somebody who understood.someone kind and gentle even to rude, obnoxious, evil people like I Was. Someone who would say that I wasn't crazy even though I obviously was. That was all that I wanted. Someone who understood. Someone who was always there for me and wasn't out to trick me.  
  
Someone that I could love back, and be there for. It would have had to be a two-way thing. I would always feel bad and depressed if they didn't confide in me, too.  
  
Which no one ever did. Because, as the days wore on, I was finding it harder and harder to tell people things.  
  
Sitting in the woods, crying, I picked up a stick and cut my right arm. This was my comfort. This was what I could deal with. When I hated myself too much, when my mind was full with so much rage that I was afraid not to hurt myself, I would hurt. I would cry harder because of my pain but eventually, when the blood stopped, the tears would stop.  
  
I was crazy. I was hungry. I was hurting. And I was afraid of myself.  
  
Each time my feet slapped the ground, her name repeated in my mind. Summer. Summer. Summer. Her name fit the perfect rhythm of my feet. But then again, so did Heather's name. Heather. Heather. Heather.  
  
I forced myself to think about Summer. She needed me right now, I kept repeating. She needed me now and I could need her after.  
  
Although I clearly needed someone right at this moment, too.  
  
Because my mother was dying. My mother was dying and everyone was afraid of her. Afraid of her for something that she couldn't even help. Even I, I was afraid. Of her. I just couldn't show it, though. Because if she knew that everyone in the family was afraid of her, she would die for sure. I was pretty positive that my mother was leaning on me not only for her food, as she had for breakfast that morning, but for her life. Her will to leave. At leaast until everyone else realized that she was mom, the same mom from two years ago.  
  
My mother couldn't die. If my mother died, then I would die, too.  
  
I finished my lap around the track and started the second one, thinking, mulling over everything that was happening to her. Mommy.  
  
It never even occurred to me that Summer was dying, too. 


End file.
